Icarus
by ElleOL
Summary: "You know what they say: you play with fire and you get burnt. What they forget to mention is the feeling as you fall into the flames... that alluring draw of the light, too bright to turn away, and the glorious sensation you experience when you keep holding on to feel it sear you." Tony/Loki


**Reposted on August 26, 2012: Minor changes to tense format, and inserted section  
****Dedicated to GrimmXEchelonXStonyDestielXN ut for taking the time to review the previously uploaded version, with thanks to Kaynara-Randomness, Quraina, youdiedloved, marianne and LordLoveless for previously favouriting/alerting**

Icarus

You know what they say: you play with fire and you get burnt. What they _forget_ to mention is the feeling as you fall into the flames; the torturous dance with the devil you endure, as you battle against your natural instinct to pull away; that alluring draw of the light, too bright to turn away, and the glorious sensation you experience when you keep holding on to feel it sear your body. The flames feed you, licking at your skin with a pain so dark it's pleasuring, and eyes so cold they're burning.

He is the personification of fire. He destroys the frail wings you balance on, chasing you through wind and rain as you soar upwards, away from those labels humanity once burdened you with: the hero, an artist, the soldier. You dawn closer to the Sun with each passing second, a beacon of warmth and hope. Your life source and your safety. But he follows. He will always follow. After all, fire will always rise. And you know the burn is inevitable, because we all know what happens when you get too close to the Sun.

Ultimately, it all comes down to chemical reactions. The sight of a beautiful person stilling you in the middle of the street as they walk past, the flare of anger when the person you trust with your life and heart is found on top of another man, the seizure of your breathing as you face a fight-or-flight situation. Dopamine, catecholamines, adrenaline; words that were strung together by the human race when they sought understanding in their desperate fear of the unknown. Each chemical acts, reacts, stimulates and suppresses.

Fire starts with a chemical reaction. And from the moment the catalyst thrives, a link in the chain is snapped shut and the fire sustains itself, destructive in nature and merciless in fate, dangling a noose from the ceiling until eventually it finds its way around your neck.

You never thought hands so cold could scorch you.

But he's a weightless currency, passing in and out of your system like the darkest shadow of life support. Or a personalised toxin. Oxygen.

And you? Well, you don't need the colours on your suit of armour to know you're a flammable substance. Fuel.

And together? You're ambient. Heat.

You were bound to burn eventually. You just forgot how quickly fire spreads.

But you're getting ahead of yourself, because a fire doesn't form by pure coincidence. Fires are wielded by dark eyes and darker intentions. Pyromania always has a name, whether by accident or on purpose, and the stake has been carved long before you have a chance to realise you're tied to it.

**Oxygen**

He first helps you breathe as you splutter blood from your mouth into consciousness. You keep your eyes closed, but before you can open them, the slightest of soothing pressures against your back disappears, and the pain crashing over your senses overwhelms you, making you groan in agony and claw at the dusty rubble you are lying on.

When you coax yourself into opening your eyes, you don't expect to see him above you.

"Well, this can only go wrong" You croak and squeeze your eyes shut, throat dry and still painful from the dust cutting through it. The memory of your routine transfer seems like a bittersweet age ago, and the gravity of your captivity in a cave with an apocalyptic criminal sounds like either the beginning of a terrible joke or a terrible bout of cannibalism.

_Don't worry, Nick, I'm sure I can handle taking a snowman with daddy issues from one cell to another_

_What's the worst that could happen?_

Otherwise known as: Reasons why Tony Stark shouldn't be allowed to speak #672(a)

"You do not have a concussion, then." His voice is smooth in the dim room, and he seems somewhat calm, unaffected by the blast that sent the jet spiralling into the side of the mountain, and stranding them in a fallen cave.

"You didn't check to see if I was alive?" You frown, and push up, wincing at the onslaught of pain washing through your head, momentarily blinding you and overwhelming your mind with a high-pitched squeal. The side of the God of Mischief's lip upturns, and he fixes you briefly with a quizzical look.

"Contrary to popular belief, Stark, trying to help those who are keeping me prisoner is not high in my list of priorities"

You glance to your wrist and frown, flexing it with caution as Loki rises fluidly and paces through the darkness.

"Considering that I distinctly remember snapping a bone reaching for the radio as we spiralled to our deaths," You look to his silhouette, frozen in the spot a few feet from you, shaded in lies and darkness "I reckon it's higher than you think."

Loki says nothing, then. In fact, he doesn't move, barely breathing, as if he is shadowing a ghost for hours on end. You can't distinguish hours from minutes in perpetual darkness, but your stomach reminisces time lost to the silence. You gently guide your fingers through the darkness, finding the emergency radio communicator lying untouched to your left, silent and unresponsive, before tapping in a homing signal. You go to rest it down, but recoil as your hand finds his leg, surprised at the static shock repulsing you away. You maintain your breathing, blinking away the existence of the cave, imagining a wide, open space. You're not ready to fight for your life under flickering emergency lighting in these caves. You can't do it again, not this time. You won't have the strength to fight again. Yinsen saved you before, and now there's _him_. He's fire, and ice and-

He's already saved you once.

"Only you" His voice startles you back, and you remain quiet, blinking away images of your martyred military destruction and focusing on his voice, strangely melodic and soothing, calming his breathing and buzzing arc reactor "I would only help you."

As you ask him "Why?" you don't need to lift the shadows on his face to note his heavy shoulders, and sense his terse expression.

"I don't know."

You don't ask him anymore. You fill the silence with footsteps and heavy breathing whilst you wait for the light of day to seep through the blocked cave entrance, latex clad SHIELD agents in tow. And somehow, you find yourself talking about Afghanistan. About Obadiah Stane, Stark Industries' crumbling weapons Empire, and the man who created world peace by keeping him alive with a car battery electromagnet all those years ago. Maybe it's because it fills the silence, and maybe it's because it passes the time. But as Loki settles beside him, stiffens at the word 'betrayal', and moves closer to 'conserve warmth' conveniently as your voice wavers against traitor emotions, you can see the embers flickering into life.

You make no move to stamp them out.

**Fuel**

Perhaps it is the slight of a challenging smile gracing his lips, or the spark in his eye promising a slow and painful fall from Grace, but when you try to put the fire out, you use gasoline.

You move to his drum, heed to his beckon call. And he does to yours. Neither of you can explain, and neither of you want to, because for the first time in a long time, it feels a little less lonely. As if a component has been added in your lives, and soothes an annoying burn, or fills a small void you didn't realise was there. But now, without him, you can feel its loss.

So when he's lost, you find him. And when you're lonely, he's in your room. And when you're both alone, you're alone together.

The first night he comes to you, you're tired and lonely; so fucking _lonely_. Pepper's gone. She's found Happy and that's okay because she's... Well, she _is _happy. You have lost track of the hours in the day as you brood in your workshop, creating and imagining wonderful things only to destroy them with your touch. Because that's what you do; you break everything you touch. You watch them crumble like a weathered stone, your vain attempts to save them wilting under the undeniable realisation that you _enjoy_ watching them fall. You break promises, and buildings, and people. You broke Pepper.

You only realise as the soldering iron sears your finger as you remain transfixed in a reverie, that everytime you break them, they break you.

You break him, as well.

You had stumbled to your room in a sleep deprived trance, the echo of footsteps distant to your ears, mixing and deceiving you into believing there's only one set following you in the hallways. By the time the bedroom door clicks shut softly, the warnings from JARVIS about a security breach feel more alike to a dream than reality. Lucidity feels more real than the awareness of a flame against your skin nowadays; nothing quite reaches before it whispers away from your realisation, carried with the soft wind. Wind fuels the fire, and you don't realise that the soft wind against the back of your neck is the sweetness of his breath before he speaks.

"In the cave," He murmurs "Why did you tell me everything you did?"

Is it his mind trapped within a limbo of a fatigued haze that makes his mouth utter JARVIS to silence the security systems, or is it the hand at his shoulder, wavering just above contact, as if unsure of itself.

"I don't know"

You haven't seen him since the cave, when he disappeared within a second when light poured through the cave entrance, signalling the arrival of SHIELD reinforcement. You had wondered, as you hissed at the blinding sunlight and held a hand against it to shield yourself, just for a moment, why he hadn't disappeared in the first place.

You continue with a tired slur lacing your words, your eyes shutting of their own accord. To you, he is merely a vision, a dream standing behind you. You shan't turn around, look him in those piercing eyes, burning through you. That would make it real, and you don't want to admit to the bitter disappointment you have felt every other night when you have arisen to find him merely a figment of your imagined slights "Make yourself comfortable, and watch me sleep, if you're into that sort of thing"

His breath betrays him as the smallest of chuckles is carried with it. The smell of peppermint and dangerous territory encapsulates you, and you are left swaying on the spot, trembling your way towards the bed. It's only when you freeze as a hand grasps your arm that you realise. The smell of smoke clogs your system.

"I am weary from running, Stark" He murmurs, his voice too near, his cool breath sending shivers across you, marring the skin on your neck "Would you have me stay?"

"You're real this time, aren't you?" The hand holding you in place shakes with the lightest of laughs. Innocent, unguarded, imperfect and so _so_dangerous.

"This time?" A question lingers, and you move into your bed, pulling the covers away. You try to block out the image of the betrayed Prince in the cave, the one who sidled against you to offer heat, and comfort, just for a little while. The one who had let his head fall against your shoulder, his raven hair brushing your healed skin and his breath evening out to mix with your own in the solitude of darkness. You try to block out the image that has been haunting you for a month since, of finally finding safety in a cave, and seeking the warmth of a fire. You try to block out his existence, because you know that this isn't real, and he isn't crawling in beside you.

You try to ignore feeling warmer than you have for a while, and the feeling of ice heating you as you sleep soundlessly.

Time is a foreign concept. You disconnect the phone. Don't answer the door. Block the world out. The seconds merge into hours and the hours become days. You don't notice the unopened SHIELD correspondence lying by the bedroom door, or the lack of food in your stomach, you just notice him. Sometimes he would speak of his home; golden and majestic against the stark nights and bristling stars. He would talk of Thor, and great battles and sumptuous feasts fit for Kings and Queens alike. Sometimes he would pause, as if lost in a memory, his eyes shining under candlelight, misting with tears briefly before he would blink them away; banishing the thought of his home. It is no longer his _home_, he would say. But most of the time, you are silent. You spend fleeting moments of loneliness trying to remember the weight of him creasing the bed sheets, the rise and fall of his pale chest as he breathes, the way his eyes crease gently as the corners when he smirks, a recollection of mischief played passing his mind. In the end, you tangle and twist to build a fire, small and unstable, but for a while comforting; lulling you into the security of warmth and a guiding light for lost souls. When you speak, it would be like talking to yourself. He becomes part of you, and though he never utters it, the uncomfortable twist in his features in moments of silence mirrors your own confusion. Why would you speak so candidly to your downfall, why are you so lost?

Why are you so alone?

Perhaps the beauty of the fire is the smoke, invading your senses, clouding your judgment and easing you into a fatal submission, causing you to rest peacefully as you choke on toxic fumes, suffocating on the poisonous air. Perhaps it shrouds you in a mirage of happiness, and the discovery of peace and purpose in the deadliest of arms.

Perhaps you passed out a long time ago, somewhere on a dark cave floor with a severe concussion and a malicious Norse god by your side, and the poisonous chemicals in the smoke are destroying your body with each passing second, and have not woken since. Perhaps this is what it feels like in the limbo between an oasis of life or death. Perhaps, in any case, as always, you are the one left to die.

The day SHIELD breaks down JARVIS' security protocols, is the day you realise that the fire is out of control. They barricade you in, shirtless and bleary-eyed at four in the morning; keeping the infected hostage. Containing the fire. Loki stands silent against Tony's curses, and frantic search for his suit activation device. And when his fingers trace the handgun in his bedside table, he pulls it out and checks the ammunition.

"They're going to kill you," You stop moving, eyes closing, not understanding your erratic breathing "aren't they?"

"You must leave, Stark." His voice is eerily calm, quiet in the face of danger. A spear appears in his grip, shining even against the dimmest of lights.

"Shut up." You hiss, scrambling for an extra bullet to fill the barrel.

"Stark-"

"Shut _up_, Loki."

"You're just a pawn in someone else's game, Stark" His voice is low, heavy like the pull of gravity on his shoulders, sinking his stomach "Your fall is inevitable;" A sad smile ghosts his lips, his eyes narrowing "we all fall in the end. And it may be tomorrow, or the day after. It will come eventually." The shine returns "And when it does, I can't wait to guide you away from the side of the angels." A rueful smile replaces the sadness, regret lacing his tone "But that day is not today. So you must leave me."

**Heat**

"I'm not leaving you here," Your voice shakes with uncertainty, the words coming out of your mouth surprising the both of you "not alone."

He doesn't speak for a moment, the silence heavy as he stands. He doesn't need to ask, because he already knows the answer.

"Why?"

And you can see the frostbite clouding his eyes, stinging your skin, vulnerable without your metal, clad in its burning colours of counteragents. Now it is just you and him, as it always has been, but suddenly it is real; you can see your bare chest rising and falling, you can see the soft hum of your arc reactor exposing you, exposing him to temptation. His hand rises, spear outstretched in warning as his face twitches in a furious snarl as your voice betrays you, quiet in its weakness.

"You know why."

"Stop it," He seethes, spitting in disgust to the side "Stop doing this"

"No, _you_ stop" You growl, your lack of control causing your fists to shake "You think this is my doing? You think I _wanted_ this?" You don't miss the momentary stiffness melting into vehemence, the grip on his blade tightening, the pale skin stretching painfully across his knuckles

"Of course" He advances with an unfaltering fluency, leaving scorched footsteps in his wake "Who indeed, _Stark_, would wish you to make bed with a monster?"

You don't know when it happened, and you don't know how, but the room falls suddenly still at the click of the safety on a gun, resting softly against Loki's forehead. Your finger hesitates over the trigger, and the cool metal is quickly melding to your peeling skin.

"You're not a monster, Loki."

His arm is thrust forward within a second, the spear grazing your side as you spin away, the butt of the gun descending with a sickening crack against the back of his ebony head as he stumbles forward from the loss of momentum. The burning pain is there now, more present than ever, and the warmth of your blood seeping against the fabric of your shirt is enough to send you forward in a frenzied attack. The Norse god spins as you connect a fist to his jaw, and his fingers close around your neck with an unyielding strength, cutting your oxygen with wild eyes, drawing you closer as your limbs flail without guidance

"Don't you _dare_" The floor disappears and your legs kick outwards, weakening by the second as the pressure in your head swans you out of concentration "tell me who I am. You see nothing. You _are_ nothing." Your leg connects with flesh, and you gasp as the pressure around your neck is released and you collapse forward, drinking in air as Loki buckles before you. Recovery is simultaneous and the flames reunite fiercely, battling for dominance on the ground, lava consuming the pair as the room continues to burn. His spear pushes to your stomach and your arm holds him away, the barrel of the gun waywardly pointing upwards from the god's resistance, the impasse unbreachable.

"I know." You repeat, shifting as he presses down against you "I am nothing."

And you both knew it would come down to this, unstoppable substances mixed together in a fatal chemical reaction will always burn, always devastate. You destroy everything touch, and you can't seem to let go of each other.

You got too close to the Sun, trying to escape the flames.

You don't need a doctorate in science to know how to extinguish the fire.

"It's okay," You gasp, letting the god's shaking hand, now clammed with a fearful sweat and shaking from exhaustion, be guided towards your chest. A tremor hits your voice as you feel the oxygen rapidly leave your body, your grip shuddering under the Norse god's pressure. The blade hovers nearer, and you want to believe you saw the quiver of realisation in his lip as the man above you finally concedes. Because he realises now, his check mate has turned stale in the blink of a tearful eye:

You will always burn, but not without him.

"It's okay." You nod, breaths harsh and laboured, your body protesting futilely against the end; begging desperately to use the natural instinct to fight or fly; to survive. But you don't need it, any of it. The chemical reactions, and the labels of humanity. They're fatal, and that's what you are made of: chemicals. Adrenaline, dopamine, testosterone. You are created to be fatal.

You only needed the final component before you were consumed.

The blade plunges in, and you jerk upwards with a whimper, a hand softly pressing against your mouth with a strangled hush, wide eyes staring through you and whispering meaningless words as the sensation of pain makes you delirious. Your vision swims as the cooper tang swarms your mouth, your lungs protesting as the metal nicks the organs. You stutter, and forget what your last breath feels like. You shudder under his hold, red smearing his ever gentle hand against your lips as he catches an artery. No darkness lurks at the edges of your vision, and no white light guides you in your final moments.

It's just him.

He is the personification. And the elements can't survive without each other. Your hand tightens around the barrel, and takes aim.

He smiles and nods, before he twists the blade.

"It's okay"

You pull the trigger.

* * *

**I don't know what this is. I read a book and, this happened. I might take it down, I'm not happy with it at all; sleep deprivation got the better of me midway. I also have a problem with trying to hurt Tony emotionally/physically... Anyone starting to notice a pattern? **

**As always, reviews are greatly appreciated and literally make my day. Any comments are welcome, and won't go unrewarded.**** Also if you want to have talks about life's big questions, such as my weapons of choice in the zombie apocalypse, then come chat to me on Twitter, because I have nothing better to do with my life. My username is uhohella**

**Mahalo!**


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